Wolfman
Mary C. Moore
Copyright 2010 by Mary C. Moore
Smashwords Edition
I am Wolfman.
I am part wolf, maybe.
When the wolves run I sense them.
Teeth bared, tongues flickering. I sense them.
Paws heavy, fur thick. I sense them.
I sense her too. She is out there.
Her red cloak.
Shining.
I howl. I begin to slobber. A greed for ownership, it rises inside me. How do we survive life? But I want her. I rumble. The twisted bones of my body urge the gorged muscles to move. Scraping the floor. Floor you ask? Do not forget, I am part man, part wolf, no.
Her grandmother, that evil witch. The old one stole her daughter—her love from me. She was mine, all mine, and I was hers. Love you ask? Can a freak not be loved? The witch’s daughter saw good, but the witch made her see evil.
I want what is mine. The wolves howl. Howling releases the spirit, releases the humanity. Be still, I am outside now. There is only sharpness of pine—biting and stinging the inside of my nose. Then I smell it, the red cloak. I howl.
My furry legs carry me, loping through the stinging pine. What controls us? Are our lives forever controlled by outside forces? How can we win? The evil witch stole from me. You are too ugly, she said. Too horrible for my daughter, she said.
I sense the Wind. He is anxious and ruffles the fur of the wolves, blowing the scent of pine and something darker. I move with him, for I have haunted this place with yellow eyes. I know where the witch is. And the red cloak is coming. It is mine to take. It is mine. The old one knows. She is waiting, axe gleaming in one hand.
You are still ugly, she says.
No, I grumble. I am Wolfman.
Wolves are horrible, she says.
You stole my flesh from me. Time to repay the favor, I say.
Blood is red. Wolves know blood. They know its buttery smell and the taste of its fire. For it inflames us. Who, you ask? I have not forgotten, part wolf, yes, and part man. The dirt laps up the blood, my child’s grandmother’s blood. The earth sucks it down faster than my mouth can. The wind blows the scent of fresh kill to the wolves. They howl. They are coming. I sense them.
I sense her too. The red cloak is coming before the wolves. I have to have her. She is mine. Is it not the God given right to have that which comes from his seed? But will she see me as me? Malice has a sharp tongue; my love was nearly killed by it. How to convince the red cloak that I am her father?
I will speak to her through the evil witch’s face. Yes, she will trust her grandmother’s skin, and then I can convince her. For I love her. She is the result of love, all that is left of that love. Mine. My child. She will love me, she has to love me. No one else will.
I am Wolfman.
My eyes water when I see her. Perfection. The longing fills me and nearly rips out my throat.
She speaks.
“Grandmother what big teeth you have.”
The wolves are running, and I sense them. Nostrils flared, teeth gleaming, they are hunting. They will arrive soon.
We should go inside my dear. I love your shiny red cloak.
The wolves are here.
We do not make it inside.
I am a man.
The wolves are here.
The scent of blood is in the air.
Teeth bared, tongues flickering. They sense me.
The blood enflames them. They sense it.
She is running. She is bleeding.
Her red cloak.
Fading.
What have I done?
***
This retold fairy tale is from a compilation of short stories entitled “Beastly Tales”.
Visit www.marycmoore.com to learn more about the author.